Page 82 of When the Storm Breaks
“Turn around, Calla,” I say—giving her one last chance to stop this.
She hesitates, just for a second, before she obeys, turning her backto me.
With slow, careful movements, I reach up and unhook her bra. The fabric slips down, pooling on the floor with a quiet thud.
She tenses. Sucks in a breath.
I see it in the curve of her spine—the vulnerability. I almost think she’s going to shut down completely.
But instead, she turns to face me.
My eyes trace her, taking her in.
Soft, full curves waiting to be touched, traced, memorized by hands like mine. Her nipples are tight from the cool air, flushed a deep pink that makes my pulse stutter.
My jaw locks. My hands twitch at my sides, aching to move. The sight knocks the breath from my lungs—a heady mix of want and restraint.
Even now, there’s strength in the way she holds herself. Resilience wrapped in softness. The delicate slope of her collarbone. The faint rise and fall of her chest.
My eyes drop lower, catching the contrast of black lace against bare skin.
It’s devastating. Feminine and utterly wrecking.
Something about it pushes me right to the edge of my control.
“Take them off, Calla.”
My voice is strained, every muscle in my body wound too damn tight.
I keep my eyes locked on hers. But I see it—the subtle change as the last barrier falls away.
And I’ve never seen anything more perfect.
I allow myself one glance—one intentional drag of my eyes overher. The curves. The pale stretch of skin. The small tuft of hair now visible where the lace once was.
“Fucking beautiful,” I whisper.
The words slip out before I can stop them. I curse myself immediately, snapping my gaze back to her face.
I want to touch her. Pull her close. But it’s not about me.
I step forward and cup her face, my palm brushing over smooth skin. She leans into the touch, just slightly, but enough to make something in my chest tighten.
Her wide eyes search mine, open. Without thinking, I lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead. It’s all I can give her right now. Something to show her she’s safe with me.
“Take a shower,” I say, stepping back but keeping my eyes on her. “I’ll grab you some clothes.”
I don’t wait for a response. If I do, I might not leave.
I step out, closing the door gently behind me. The sound of the shower curtain sliding rings out, followed by a change in the water’s rhythm. She’s in.
I exhale, leaning back against the wall, dragging a hand down my face. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s sick, and I stripped her naked. What kind of person does that?
But then… it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about me. It was her.
There’s something about Calla that pulls me in, that makes me feel responsible. Protective.
The line between wanting to take care of her and just wanting her is razor-thin, and it scares me how fast I’m losing my footing.
